


Falling is a kind of Freedom - Klance

by Pitastash



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bullying, F/M, Fist Fights, Foster Kid Keith (Voltron), Growing Up, Homophobia, M/M, School, Slow Burn, Slurs, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitastash/pseuds/Pitastash
Summary: Over the next few months it spread that Keith was a boy in foster care, someone like Harry Potter, whom Lance had spent many weekends impersonating. Although Keith did not run around the house shouting “Expelliarmus” the way Lance had, the new boy did stay out of the way of his classmates as if a fictional Mr. Dursley had lectured him.Keith would sit on the bench by the maple tree at recess, tying and untying his red sneakers. Lance sometimes invited him to climb the jungle gym with a few other friends, but Keith usually shied away from this, or hid in the art room. He barely ever cracked a smile.What a weird kid.
Relationships: Allura/Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Weird Kid

**Author's Note:**

> This work is ongoing. TW: homophobic slurs, bullying.

When Lance was in second grade, the new kid came.  
It was late in the school year and the trees in the yard were speckled with pink flowers, buds just beginning to unfurl. A favorable sign of warm days coming.  
The bell had rung after the morning assembly, something to do with looking both ways before crossing the street, and only doing so on those white lines Lance pretended were islands over lava.  
His homeroom teacher, Mr. Coran, was tidying his desk in anticipation. A nervous, though goofy man, Lance hoped this indicated some special surprise. Like that one time a fireman had visited and gave a presentation about fire safety. Lance had been picked to “stop, drop and roll” for everyone.  
But today felt different. There was a sense of curiosity in the room, quickly brought about by the arrival of the school counselor and a second guest.  
“May I have your attention, everyone” she said, interrupting some idle chatter over trading of crayons. “We have a new classmate, Keith. Please welcome him and show him how things are done here.”  
There was a collective pause as the students surveyed this newcomer, and then a ringing “Welcome, Keith” as they had been trained.  
The boy put up a cautious hand, said nothing, and proceeded to the empty desk at the end of Lance’s row. His dark rats' nest of hair nearly hid his eyes, though it was obvious he had ambivalent feelings about being here.  
Over the next few months it spread that Keith was a boy in foster care, someone like Harry Potter, whom Lance had spent many weekends impersonating. Although Keith did not run around the house shouting “Expelliarmus” the way Lance had, the new boy did stay out of the way of his classmates as if a fictional Mr. Dursley had lectured him.  
Keith would sit on the bench by the maple tree at recess, tying and untying his red sneakers. Lance sometimes invited him to climb the jungle gym with a few other friends, but Keith usually shied away from this, or hid in the art room. He barely ever cracked a smile.  
What a weird kid.

The perks of growing up in a small school were largely social. That is, if you were Lance, it was easy to be known by everyone, and generally liked. This factor was amplified by the growing popularity of gossip and becoming “items” in seventh grade.  
While Lance excelled on the soccer team, and took lead trumpet positon in band, he made little effort to achieve status. Meanwhile, the family, with all seven of its hungry mouths, took the remainder of his time.  
His mother had recently sat him down--actually sat him at a table across from her--to discuss his getting a part time job. Babysitting, maybe. While she worked at home, his father was overseas and inconsistent about sending checks.  
The stress was mounting for Lance, and it peaked on the day Keith was kicked out.

Keith had transferred to two other foster families in the meantime, and it showed in the way he attended school. Hardly vocal before, he withdrew to the shade of the bleachers most days to be with a couple of neighborhood teenagers, a group that called themselves the Blade Boys.  
While they smoked, he drew designs in a spiral notebook: inky dark shapes and faces that one day might get tattooed on someone. Maybe he’d tattoo them on himself. He could stand pain very well.  
It wasn’t like he had money to burn anyway.  
Bundled against the late fall chill in a Goodwill hoodie with Marilyn Manson’s face on it, Keith drew and drew and drew.  
Before long someone began to notice.

“Shit, get a load of this!”  
The yell was measured and dripped sarcasm. It belonged to an eighth grader, some guy named Hunter, who Keith had never acknowledged before.  
P.E. was winding down, and Lance, helpful to a fault, was putting the gear away with the instructor.  
The seventh graders were milling together, whispering and pointing at the new arrival and his friend, an absolute unit of a teen with biceps to make Captain America jealous.  
Keith couldn’t breathe. He snatched at the notebook, embarrassed at the attention. The Blade Boys drew away from the commotion, pocketing their blunts.  
Please just give it back and don’t say anything and just treat me like you did before, he thought. A cold sweat broke out over his temple as Hunter waved the drawings to the crowd.  
“So you like pretty boys, huh, Freak?”  
The crowd started oohing.  
Naked male torsos spread over the open pages like small studies of the David statue, thoroughly and thoughtfully sketched.  
Keith gritted his teeth. He reached again for the book.  
“Please just leave me alone,” he said under his breath.  
“What’s that? Can’t hear you, pussy.” More oohs.  
“Give. It. Back.”  
“Suck my dick, faggot.”  
And suddenly Hunter was bent over, clutching his face. Keith snatched up the book, blood spattered down his hand.  
There were horrified and jubilant shouts from the crowd, though no one moved to intervene. Even when the bell began ringing to usher them onto the next period, it seemed a distant hum in the background.  
“Hey, you guys, we need to get going,” someone said, and pushed past the outer circle.  
“You pussy fuck! He broke my n-no…”  
“What the hell is going on!?” Lance shouted, clearing the crowd finally.  
Dust rose up around Keith, who had tackled Hunter and was kicking him repeatedly in the ribs.  
Someone was screaming, the congregation was breaking apart, and someone else was rushing forward into the chaos.  
There followed flashing lights, parents called, and another school assembly.  
Lance switched schools after that via the concern of his mother and grandparents.  
He did not see Keith for a long time.


	2. Like the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fight, Keith faces dire consequences.

Hunter Mason suffered two broken ribs alongside his nose. The internal bleeding was managed by healthcare workers, apparently, though he would remain on painkillers for months. The main thing was to remember it’s lucky his parents dropped charges, the Principal had said.  
Also, you’re expelled.  
So that was that, and Keith went back to the house he was supposed to call home, however long that lasted. His foster parents took away his phone, gave him a trash can to relieve himself in, and locked the door.  
He heard them murmuring to each other through the walls.  
Something about how “we should have rescinded the application sooner.”  
The following weeks sent Keith into a depression, though at the time he lacked the concept to name what it was.  
At least his school had stayed the same through all these domestic changes. His classmates’ dramas had played out predictably and frustratingly over the years, So-and-so dating, then breaking it off with So-and-so. His teachers had stayed the same. And that one peppy kid, who was so desperate for approval, had grown up alongside him. What was his name again?  
But Keith had blown it over a stupid bully.  
He wasn’t even the first bully, just some overconfident, under-loved asshole whose biggest accomplishment would be his domination over others. Pathetic.  
And now he was alone again, imprisoned in someone else’s house, his ballpoints running out of ink.  
The Blade Boys had come by a couple times, thrown rocks at his window to get his attention, and then launched Ritz crackers and Oreo boxes to him. At least they didn’t care if he was a freak.  
They hadn’t stopped Hunter, though.  
He didn’t hold it against them, as he himself barely had the patience to respond to direct verbal abuse, let alone that against others.  
He refused to be a victim, however. He saw these filthy people for what they were, and after a while the words stopped soaking through and instead ran off him like rain on glass. 

It had started with the first fosters, a couple in their late fifties, whose own children had grown and left long before Keith was placed with them. The wife grew her own spinach and refused anything but homeopathic remedies. The husband smoked crack.  
Keith’s anger had been such a disappointment to them, it had to be disciplined out of him. He ended up running away from that house.  
The second was little improvement, mostly neglect. That is, until Keith acted out and smashed the ornamental china to pieces.  
The third and most recent household had a dog that Keith loved. For the first time in what seemed like ages, there was someone else who understood and cared about him without needing any explanations, apologies, or favors. She was a long-haired English Mastiff mix, whose silky coat needed extensive brushing.  
Keith volunteered for this task, to the delight of the owner, who was always working.  
Knot after knot was tended to under the boy’s careful fingers. Sometimes she fell asleep as he worked the brush through her fur.  
Everyday after school, Keith came home and sat with the dog to do his homework. Her calming presence even saw a jump in his grades that year, from Cs to Bs.  
And then she got sick, and the owner decided not to pay to have her life extended.  
So Keith was left alone again.

And he retaliated.

Today the news came that the boy’s imprisonment would end in favor of his continuing education at a special school for at-risk youth.  
“Arus Institute will know how to handle you,” his foster mother said, handing over the envelope containing his grant information.  
Relief and apathy battled in Keith. Relief won, though narrowly.  
“Pack up your things. You’ll need them.”  
He did as he was told.  
However this would end up, he could handle it. He’d been through more fucked up shit than the average person could imagine.  
Good riddance, everything, he thought.  
Like the rain on the window.  
Rain on the window.  
Don’t let it soak in.


End file.
